And they found surprising insights in the most unexpected places – like the flowers of the field.
We're diving into Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Song of Songs, that most beautiful and enigmatic book. And right at the beginning, we stumble upon a question: What's the deal with the ḥavatzelet and the shoshana? The verse says, "I am a rose [ḥavatzelet] of Sharon, a lily [shoshana] of the valleys.” (Song of Songs 2:1). But Rabbi Yudan and Rabbi Eliezer ask, aren't those just different words for the same flower?
The Midrash offers a beautiful answer: when it's small, it’s called ḥavatzelet; when it grows larger, it's called shoshana. Think of it as a metaphor for potential. A young flower, still hidden, is full of promise. Rabbi Yudan even connects the name ḥavatzelet to the idea of being "shrouded in its shade" [ḥavuya betzila] – its petals folded protectively around its fragile center. As it matures and blossoms, it becomes the magnificent shoshana.
Rabbi Eliezer adds another layer. He compares the righteous to the best of species and the best of that species: a lily, specifically, a lily of the valley. Why the valley? Because unlike mountain lilies that wither quickly, lilies of the valley remain moist and vibrant.
But what about when we're feeling down, stuck in those valleys? Rabbi Abba bar Kahana offers a powerful image. He says the congregation of Israel, even when sunk "in the depths of troubles" [imkei], can still blossom. They declare before God, “I am as I am, yet I am beloved.” Even in our brokenness, in our valleys, we can blossom with good deeds and sing songs of praise. This connects to Isaiah 26:16, "Lord, in their trouble they turned to You."
And Rabbi Aḥa chimes in, suggesting that even when we feel God's gaze intensely – when we're confronted with our shortcomings – we can still blossom. It's like Psalm 130:1, "A song of ascents. From the depths I call to You, Lord."
The Rabbis take this idea even further. They imagine the congregation of Israel declaring that even when situated in the depths of Gehenna (a concept often translated as hell), God can rescue us. As it says in Psalms 40:3-4, "He raised me from the pit of destruction…He placed a new song in my mouth."
This reminds me of a powerful idea shared by Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i. He envisions a future where the nations of the world accuse Israel before God, pointing out shared sins. Why, they ask, are the gentiles punished while the Jews are not? God's response? "If that is so, all the peoples will descend with their gods to Gehenna." As Micah 4:5 says, "For all the peoples will walk, each in the name of its god, but we will walk in the name of the Lord our God forever and ever."
Rabbi Reuven adds a startling idea: "Had this matter not been written, it would have been impossible to say it." He suggests that God, in a sense, will be judged [nishpat, a reflexive form suggesting God is being judged]. This is based on Isaiah 66:16, "For the Lord will judge [nishpat] in fire."
What does all this mean? Even in the deepest valleys, even in the face of judgment, there is hope. David, inspired, says in Psalms 23:4, "Even if I were to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me."
But what brings comfort? "Your rod and your staff," David continues. The Rabbis interpret the "rod" as suffering and the "staff" as Torah. Is it possible to find comfort in suffering? The verse continues, "Only [Akh] goodness and kindness..." Akh is understood as a restrictive term, suggesting that only those who have experienced suffering will truly appreciate goodness and kindness.
And is this goodness experienced in this world? Not necessarily. The verse concludes, "May only [akh] goodness and kindness pursue me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever [le’orekh yamim]." Le’orekh yamim is expounded to mean a world where the day is infinitely long [yom shekulo arokh]. Thus, the ultimate goodness and kindness are experienced in the World to Come.
So, what's the takeaway from all this floral imagery and theological wrestling? It's this: Even when we feel small and hidden, like a ḥavatzelet shrouded in its shade, we have the potential to blossom into a magnificent shoshana. Even when we're stuck in the valleys of life, facing suffering and judgment, we are loved, and we can find comfort in Torah and the promise of a future filled with infinite goodness. And isn't that a comforting thought as we navigate our own valleys?